The Slowest Form
by xkArielHensonxk
Summary: As alcohol fails to provide him with peace, Clay becomes desperate to silence his lust for another man. The unholy fixation coupled with his traumatic life leads to the inevitable. Losing faith in his Lord, Clay finally realizes that God isn't going to save him from himself. Warnings: Character death via suicide and ideologically sensitive material.


Here is my first FanFiction. I hope that any readers will enjoy it.

Warnings: Character death via suicide and ideologically sensitive ideas.

In a side note, I'm a huge supporter of gay rights. This story is just a reflection on how some religious people make homosexuality a forbidden fruit. Also, Clay is my favorite _Moral Orel_ character. So, while killing him off was difficult, I felt it was only logical.

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The fire crackled from the chimney behind Clay as he rested in his study. His spine hunched against the back of the armchair, the rest of his body limply draped in the chair. Upon first glance, a person could have easily come to the conclusion that Clay was dead. While his body and mind still functioned, perhaps Clay was dead. It was possible that he'd been dead for sometime if you judged by his emotional state.

The fire's crackles were distant in Clay's mind. The only sound he heard clearly were the clanks of ice hitting glass as he swirled around his scotch. It was such a bittersweet sound that caused an imbalance between pleasure and guilt. Despite the amount of guilt that tickled the nape of his neck with sweat, Clay took another gulp from the glass. The ice fell to the front of the glass, a single cube tapping against the man's teeth as the scotch sinfully slid down his throat.

Clay set down the glass, which was in desperate need of a refill, in frustration. He gripped the bridge of his nose and tightly shut his eyes as he heaved a sigh. He muttered out a slurred string of swears before observing his surroundings. The room seemed to be tilting as that sixth glass of scotch claimed the miserable man's vision. Clay focused (well, not quite) his eyes on his glass as he poured a sea of liquor atop the ice. He continued to stare at the cubes swirling around, watching as the liquor twisted his reflection.

The deepest of pain plagued the man's heart, sending it hurling into his stomach. No matter how much alcohol Clay sent over his lips and passed his gums, it never fully eased his mental anguish. Every sip, every glass, and every bottle of alcohol in the world didn't seem to be enough for him. There was never any doubt to others that the "righteous" man was a hopeless alcoholic; rarely did anyone see him without a drink in his hand.

His reflection continued to swish along with the ice, turning his face into a disfigured mess. In his drunken state, multiple hallucinations began to swim laps around the rim of his drinking glass. Every hallucination carried its own emotionally-scarring memory, mostly one that morphed into someone Clay yearned. Strangely, the vision didn't have the shoulder-length brunette hair of his wife, Bloberta. Well, perhaps that wasn't so strange in retrospect.

It had always been in question if Clay really loved his wife. Mostly, he proposed to her so he'd have a helper – someone to (literally) hold his head upright. The question of his love for and his devotedness to his wife had been thrown around the town every now and again, but town gossip was always overrode by some protest or a church sermon. While the townsfolk, however, could be distracted from the curious thought, Clay couldn't. There wasn't a force strong enough to ward off the nagging thought - "do I love my wife?"

The answer was there in his hand, floating on the waves of scotch – no. Short and simple, but bitterly hard to swallow. The reflected memory in the glass wasn't that of his emotionally-distant wife, but of a friend of his... a very close "friend". The blonde hair, the angular jaw, that set of smoldering eyes; it was far from the image of his wife, but it wasn't far from the image of his lover.

Clay's mouth had grown dry and desperate for the drink in his hand, which had begun to tremble. He gazed at the smug face that looked up at him, noting that his heart had instantly slid into his stomach. Coach Danielle Stopframe, a man who didn't quite fit into this overly-righteous community, seemed to be piercing right through Clay's weary eyes. The brunette snapped his eyes shut when he felt his nerves bundling in his stomach. He didn't love his wife, he only tolerated his children, he harbored a hatred toward his father, he had the blood of his mother on his hands, and he had somehow fallen in love with another man; that would be enough to make anyone's stomach twist into a pretzel.

His heart had begun to pound in the lower pit of his abdomen, and sweat thickly coated his furrowed brows. Clay had always heard that "God won't give you more than you can handle", but, damn, was that ever a lot to handle. He was only a man – a broken one at that; how could God possibly have expected him to carry such a heavy load? He couldn't even share a bed with Bloberta, couldn't keep his son, Orel, from running amok (thinking he was doing God's work, of course), couldn't piece together why his second son looked nothing like him, and couldn't help but go weak in the knees because of a man.

A _man_! Why, it was the sin to top all sins! Homosexuality was heavily frowned upon in Moralton, even more discouraged than murder. Clay, seeing himself as a devoted Christian, couldn't understand why God would do such a thing. Why would God make a man cut from the cloths of Heaven gay? Being gay was taboo in the town of nutty religious folks; how could Clay possibly have shown his face in church again?

Church – that's where he was supposed to be; yet he was tucked away in his study, hammering down the alcohol as if it was an endangered species. It wasn't long before it was impossible to tell if he was picking up the glass or putting it down, all he knew was that the alcohol just kept flowing. The sweet burning of scotch trickled down his dry throat, scorching his innards with the heats of Hell. It was as if Satan himself had crept his fingertips down Clay's esophagus.

His family was probably seated in a pew close to the back of the church, listening to Reverend Putty drone on about something that Orel would later misinterpret. They had most likely already gotten through the opening prayer and hymns, and there Clay was – at home, drunk and dizzy, watching hallucinations as if they had actually been there. Two polar opposite things all intertwined into one family, who used faith and God as a coverup for their dysfunctional lifestyles.

Clay's head had begun to throb, his vision swirling like his drink had done earlier. He clutched the bridge of his nose, put down a good amount of pressure, and wished the booze would carry him to a different life. A different life that he could spend with the only person that he felt any spark for – the person that he actually had fallen in love with. Slowly, Clay opened his eyes and glanced back into the glass. A frown came to his face as he noted the face of his lover had vanished.

"Oh, God," the drunk slurred with angst, purposely having taken the Lord's name in vein, "this is just too much. I... I can't continue living this way. Damn that woman... Damn that..."

Clay stopped, the word _man_ refusing to leave his lips. Instead, the brunette gave a grunt of dissatisfaction. He loved Danielle, and that was Clay's greatest source of hatred. He loved another man in a way that God would cast him into Hell and yank off his privates for doing. He loved another man and there wasn't a single thing he could do about it.

God knows he had tried to let go of those feelings. He tried to pray the gay away, tried to drink Coach Stopframe's handsome face from his memory, tried to take out his aggressions on Bloberta. All his tactics to get over his personal Garden of Eden had failed – miserably!

"Why is everything in this town a sin?" Clay uttered in a voice that even specially-trained ears wouldn't have heard. "Everything good anyway."

A sigh and a sip later, the hopeless alcoholic felt the alcohol's warmth creep back up into his mouth. It, however, was quick to pass as Clay had long ago perfected the trick to holding down his booze. In fact, he was rarely ever bothered by pesky hangovers anymore. He seemed immune to the aftereffects; unfortunately, it started to leave his mind with too much time to think before he'd pass out cold.

Clay once again topped off the glass with the refreshingly bittersweet beverage. He could only hope that it would be his lucky ticket to the "Blackout Station", which was a term he used to describe the precise moment when the alcohol would lull him into unconsciousness. In a hopeful fit, Clay threw back the scotch with a swift gulp and tilt of the head. He clutched the glass firmly in his hand, just knowing this would be it. There was no way that he wouldn't pass out... but he didn't.

"Damn it!" He blubbered out rather boisterously as he thrashed his head into the back of his chair. "What are you trying to tell me, God? Huh? You big jerk! You think this is funny, don't you? Seeing a hard-working, family-man struggle!"

The man's heart drifted into his stomach and pounded in his gut. His face felt flushed as his eyes had begun to dart around the (seemingly) tilted room. It wasn't the first time Clay had ever minced words with his creator, but it was the first time he actually felt any true remorse for it.

Paranoia had begun to harvest bits of Clay's mind, having him glance at the clock. His family had probably just begun to sing the final hymn of the day, which left him with precious little time for the booze to do its job. It appeared that Clay wouldn't be getting the ticket to Blackout Station anytime soon as he hammered back another shot.

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry. Please, just take me now. Take me before they get back," the frantic man pleaded in a desperate attempt to bargain with the Lord. "The ole scotch just isn't doing the trick. I need a surefire escape, and you're the only one who can supply that, Lord."

Whether it had been his drunken mind talking for him or if he had really tried begging for God to end Clay's life, there was still fuel for concern. A man shouldn't harbor such disgust for his own life that he'd pray for it to end.

A stillness overcame the room with Clay right in the middle. His mind started to drift away from God and become more focused on finding an escape. His eyes, which were partially glossed with tears, floated around the room in search of his freedom. His study was filled with several different ways to "accidentally" end it, but not just any of those things would do.

In some twisted way, Clay wanted to believe that God would end it. Clay waited for a heart attack or brain hemorrhage, but nothing came of his hope. He bowed his head and rolled his eyes, his teeth gritting for a moment.

"Should have known," he scoffed with a perfect blend of anger and betrayal.

With no hope left in his heart, Clay was left with only one option. He continued his hunt, which had grown near impossible as the dizziness grew stronger. When he noticed the spins had become stronger, he figured his body must be craving more alcohol. Well, it wasn't so much the spins as it was the undying taste of liquor. He clumsily grabbed his bottle of booze and poured another glass.

Clay's eyes were forced to watch his glass as he poured. He blinked feverishly when he noticed the daunting face of Coach Stopframe had returned. Part of Clay simply wanted to drink as fast as he could to be rid of the image, but that was overrode by the urge to take in a deep look. He gazed upon the blonde he admired, a weak smile somehow managing to find his lips.

"You just love to torture me, don't you?" He drunkenly chuckled, a smug smirk having taken the place of the limp smile.

The smirk, however, wasn't that of a man reconsidering suicide. No – that smirk was the smirk of broken man reaching the end of an out-of-control downward spiral. It was the type of smirk that you'd expect to see on a man that pounds "all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" repetitively on the keys of a typewriter.

The face in the booze grew more and more vibrant, seeming to have jumped right out of the glass. Coach Stopframe's phantom suddenly grew so strong that it seemed to suck all life from the room. Clay felt his face flush as his smirk broke away. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the image.

It happened every time he decided to take in a longer look at Danielle. Clay knew that he'd had multiple chances to just be done with whatever mixed up relationship was between the two, but he always ended up gazing instead of leaving. Each time, he regretted his decision; he knew that if he continued to look that Danielle's presence would just weigh heavier on him – in some twisted way, Clay enjoyed it.

Coach Stopframe was the man that could always bring Clay so dangerously close to the burning pit of Hell, but return him to the safety of pearly gates by nightfall. It was a thrill! Pure adrenaline would rush through the alcoholic's veins whenever he was plunged so close to Satan's lair. It was one of the main reason Clay was hopelessly obsessed with that blonde Hell's angel.

Clay glanced to the table beside his chair. Bottles and glasses lined the rim of the table, creating a circle around a shattered picture frame. While most people wouldn't find any use for displaying broken picture frames, the drunk had a good reason for this particular one. Behind the shards of the frame was a photograph of Clay and Stopframe. A photo of the two sharing one of their last happy moments together before everything had gone to the bad. His eyes fixed on the spots that were no longer bound by glass, and he felt his heart slice against the broken bits along the wooden frame.

"God, I love you," Clay muttered to himself as the depressive claws of Satan lunged. "I love you, I love you... What have I done?"

The drunk's head collapsed into his palms, cradling the heavy skull. The thoughts that invaded him seemed to weigh his head down further as the back of his hands touched his knees. Clay was then completely doubled over in his chair, forehead pressed to his knees. His eyes had grown glassy as they transfixed on the bear-skin rug on the floor.

That was where he would die – right there on that bear's back. Many nights he'd spent metaphorically dead on that rug, but that night would be the finale to a treacherous emotional death. Physical would soon couple with the emotional, and there Clay Puppington would lay – dead.

He had such precious little time left before his family would return. Bloberta was probably already telling Orel to not go with strangers on account of his Sunday suit. Orel was probably already skipping down the sidewalk that lead away from the church and back toward town. So, time was draining fast and Clay had to figure a way to slow it.

Clay found his footing, albeit a bit wobbly, and walked to the other end of his study. He looked at all the dangerous collectibles – axes, swords, guns – that hung around him. One of them would have to do and Clay was too far gone to be picky. He, despite his initial protest to not use Ol' Gunny (the gun that was indirectly tainted with the blood of his mother), grabbed the family heirloom. He ran his hand along the shaft of cool metal, then took a firm hand to the butt. His watery eyes had trouble focusing, but he managed to successfully load the weapon.

This was the end. Everything that had brewed from the past had come to an ugly, taunting, malignant head. Clay felt like a disease and Ol' Gunny was a lethal dose of penicillin. It wasn't often that a problem was solved with death in Moralton (well, not intentionally), but this would be the day that would change that.

Clay knew that many would gossip about this, saying that he had been selfish to leave behind a wife and two children to rid him of his own pain. But, that was just the thing; Clay knew he was a selfish man. He knew that killing himself would free him from his wife and kids, but he didn't care. He didn't care about anything at that point. He wanted out, and if being selfish was the way to do it, then he was going to be the greediest man alive. After all, he would be dead. You can't be argued with about your mistakes when you're dead, now can you?

What had taken a lifetime to brew only took a brief moment to finish. Clay propped the barrel against his lower lip, faintly getting a taste of metal. It was a bitter taste, but it was the taste of salvation nonetheless. He wrapped his lips around the barrel, his finger resting on the trigger.

_Click... BANG!_

Clay Puppington had been dead for quite awhile, but now, after years of mental turmoil, he could be buried. Just as the living man had planned, the dead man's final breath was filled with the fur of an animal-skin rug.

Car doors opened outside, but the lifeless man no longer had to worry about that. Bloberta ushered her kids inside, telling Shapey and Orel to go change out of their good clothes. Shapey screamed with distaste for the idea, while Orel happily obliged and scurried upstairs to change.

Orel somewhat pranced across the hallway, passing by his father's study along the way. He halted in front of the door as he begun to pondered over that morning's sermon.

"Hmm, I wonder what Reverend Putty meant by "a man who dies on his own terms, is a man without God". Maybe I should ask Dad."

Orel leaned against the door of the study, knocking gently.

"Dad? Dad, can I talk to you about something Reverend Putty said? I'm just a little confused about it..." Silence. "Um, Dad? You are in there aren't you?"

Orel, not thinking much of the silence, pushed open the study door and entered the room. He looked around in search for the man, stepping further toward his father's chair. Orel suddenly stopped, tripping over a solid object but managing to catch himself. He glanced to the floor in wonder of what he'd bumped into.

When faced with a sight no twelve-year-old should be exposed to, Orel's face paled. He panicked and scrambled out of the room, rushing to warn his mother of what he had seen.

Clay Puppington was dead. Whether he was in the hands of God or cradled in the fire of Hell, or whether either of those existed to begin with, was no longer a worry to the once miserable soul. He was gone, and his not-so-discrete lust for a man was finally laid to rest.


End file.
